Of spiders and spells
by I'm Nova
Summary: When pureblood Sherlock went to Hogwarts, he didn't expect life to become quite so intense. Experimental gift fic to my faithful readers on my birthday.


_Disclaimer: I don't own a single thing. A.N. This fic is both a gift to my dear readers in the occasion of my birthday and a bit of an experiment, as I have not read or watched Harry Potter so my knowledge comes from other crossover fanfics (particularly On Wand woods and cores by Suma99) or Wikipedia. Many thanks to Sendai, my consulting Hufflepuff who encouraged me all the time and solved some doubts. Reviews would be the best gift ever for my birthday, so pretty please with cherry on top?_

Of spiders and spells

Mycroft is convinced that Sherlock will be sorted into his same house at Hogwarts. Which is patently ridiculous, because he's not like his brother at all. At least Mycroft being so bloody old means that Sherlock won't have to suffer through his older sibling's presence at school – Mycroft graduated just last summer and now Sherlock has received his own owl. It was expected, of course, as the Holmes are a pure blood magically inclined family, which has a tradition of attending the school.

"And a tradition to be brilliant at it – so behave and study hard, little brother. I don't want to have to be ashamed of you," Mycroft – the fat git – urges. Sherlock just scoffs in reply. He doesn't want to live up to his brother's expectations (and he will probably not need to study that hard; he isn't stupid).

When he's supposed to be sorted, his only thought is, _Please not Slytherin._ He doesn't want to belong to Mycroft's old house and have people continuously comparing the two of them – it's going to happen anyway more than he'd like, and he knows, but having to be in Mycroft's house – maybe in his old room, too – would be a nightmare. So when the hat announces clearly, "Ravenclaw," he breathes in relief. He's pretty proud of his sorting, to be honest. Ravenclaws are the smart ones – with the hat's endorsement, his brother won't be able to call him an idiot anymore.

He's looking forward to school, now. They won't try to stifle him, or punish him for experimenting – he hopes. Not at all like home. He's going to learn all manner of interesting things. He's looking forward particularly to Defence against the Dark Arts (he's convinced that his brother will pass to the dark side someday if he hasn't already) and Potions (attempting some without supervision is the reason he got banned from experimenting at home).

The learning turns out to be everything he'd hoped for, and then some, but there's a tiny disappointment (well, a huge one to be honest) in Sherlock's early school days. Mycroft made tons of…maybe his brother wouldn't call them friends, but useful acquaintances. People who are ready to follow him – people Mycroft could have adventures with if he wasn't so bloody lazy.

Sherlock makes no friends. Well, there's Irene, who's two years older, Ravenclaw too and would like nothing better than take Sherlock under her wing as some sort of protégé – or to be entirely honest, probably as some sort of human pet. She has no furry, winged or Anura pet, but she doesn't need one – she has plenty of people she took an 'interest' in. She's actually good in taking care of people who intrigue her for some reason or another.

Sherlock has no interest in being Irene's pet, thank you very much, but he's lonely enough that shunning her entirely is not an option for him. She's the only one who willingly talks to him, after all. "I don't care what anyone else says, you're not bad," she assures him gently "but you really need to install one brain-to-mouth filter, darling. Of course you notice things – you're a Ravenclaw, for God's sake. But there's no need to announce to the whole world everything you see all the time. Maybe there's a potion or a charm you could use to stop yourself from blurting out things. You should really look into it, Sherlock. Ask the professors, will you?"

Sherlock is not going to follow such a ridiculous suggestion. He's not going to change what he is to please his fellow students. If they don't like him as he is, fine. He doesn't need anyone. As long as his brain is fed the knowledge he craves, he can do without friends. Everyone is stupid anyway. Yes, even the other Ravenclaws. He's never uttered a word that wasn't true. It's everyone else's fault for not wanting to hear it.

Until the fateful day when the Transfiguration professor pairs them up so they can practice Avifors on each other in turns. Sherlock gets paired with Mike Stamford, a chubby Hufflepuff that will most probably botch it up – hopefully not involuntarily causing anything nasty to happen to him in the process. He won't be Sherlock's problem, though, because as soon as their names are called, Mike calls loudly, "John! Switch with me please!" The Hufflepuff obviously aims to court the young Gryffyndor – Molly something – that 'John' has been paired with.

Seeing that 'John' has a rowan wand he can't help but feel a tremulous hope. He's got an elder wand himself, because his family can procure anything and they put a lot of emphasis on strength. The fact that it's supposed to be an unfortunate wand (and that the other boys think he's going to flip and kill someone with it, if he hasn't killed _for_ it already) seemed to not influence them at all. Well, elder wands bond with rowan wands, don't they? It's known. Maybe…just maybe… this boy won't hate him on sight. Or he will, and nothing will change. He's used to it.

Against his own better judgement, surely, John – a Gryffyndor too – agrees promptly to the request. "I'm John – John Watson," he introduces himself with a wide smile.

Before he can go on and say more dull things, Sherlock cuts in and starts deducing him, "You're a Muggle born, have a pet cat – no doubt named something ridiculous like Whiskers –, will make a wonderful Beater in Quidditch because even if you aren't bulky your protective instincts won't allow anyone under your care to come to harm, and this is your favourite class even if you find it hard."

"Brilliant," John utters breathlessly. "I mean, um, you're a Ravenclaw, of course you're brilliant, but this was…amazing, really amazing."

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock asks, eager and unsure at the same time.

"Of course I do. Though my cat's name isn't Whiskers. It's Brynden," John replies with a smile.

"There's always something," Sherlock says, shrugging. "And where did you find such a name?"

"In the books of the A Song of Ice and Fire series, by George Martin. It's a great fantasy series," the Gryffyndor explains. He is clearly passionate about the books.

"You read fantasy books written by Muggles. While at Hogwarts," Sherlock replies flatly.

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of plotting. And zombies. And it is set in a different universe, so it's fine if magic works differently there too. I simply have to know who will survive till the end – the author is prone to killing off characters. Mostly good characters, it's a pity," John justifies himself. "I think he believes to be honourable means to be stupid."

"My brother would probably agree with him," the Ravenclaw replies.

"And you?"

"I wouldn't. Everyone is an idiot, not just honourable people," Sherlock quips.

Instead of being offended, John laughs. "Compared to you, I'm sure we are," he agrees good-naturedly.

They're called by the professor to attempt the transformation afterwards. Sherlock turns John into a whole flock of birds – and then turns him back whole and well, luckily.

"That tingled," John says, smiling.

He tries then, and despite his love for this kind of spells he clearly misses something, because instead of turning Sherlock into a luminous blue bird he turns him into a shining golden one. Sherlock sees himself reflected in the window, and _preens_. It might not be the point of this exercise, but he looks so much better than the other avifors. He might ask John what he's done and create his own version of the spell – and then experiment if there's the possibility to add more colours, and maybe make them indistinguishable from real birds and this has so much potential – why did no one think of it?

So you see, it's entirely in the interest of knowledge that Sherlock associates with John. They start with the experiments. John is almost recklessly willing to be a subject to whatever idea Sherlock comes up with, not only in regard to the avifors spell. Then again, he's a Gryffyndor and some degree of foolhardiness is to be expected.

What is more surprising is that not only he agrees to participate in Sherlock's magical inquiries; he seems to honestly enjoy spending his time with the lanky brunet. It appears that the Ravenclaw has finally found a friend, and he's secretly ecstatic about it. (It wouldn't do to be too open – it'd be a bit more pitiful that he's willing to appear.)

The only…not problem, he's happy for John, really, but still the fact that while he's Sherlock's only friend, John has still tons of other friends, which claim his time and attention rankles the tiniest bit. Oh, they accept his almost continual presence by John's side, mostly – some more than others – but Sherlock can't shake the doubt that they simply don't want to irritate John and don't really like him at all.

The fact that one of John's friends is the much older Prefect of Gryffyndors (six years feel like a lot at their age), Lestrade something or other, who says, "Holmes, uh?" and clearly thinks of Mycroft, doesn't help. He doesn't want people to compare him to his brother – the professors do that enough. Still, the prefect is one of the most decent people the Ravenclaw has known. Which makes so puzzling that he clearly thinks highly of his older brother. Oh well. What would life be without some mysteries?

But the most annoying of John's acquaintances is Sebastian Moran. They're together on the quidditch team – Bast is a chaser – and pretty good mates, in a slightly rowdy sort of way. Moran is Muggle-born, too, and John and he bond over ridiculous things like shooting videogames and popular movies, beyond their common love of sport.

Bast wouldn't even be that bad on his own, but he's taken a shine to the most obnoxious of the Slytherin boys, Jim Moriarty. Bast is more often over at them than in the actual Gryffyndor rooms, so at least he's not around much. John tried to tell him Jim is only using him once, but Bast told him to shut up. "You're not any better, following that Ravenclaw of yours like a lovestruck puppy," the chaser added, causing John to splutter too-passionate denials.

Jim is the reason Sherlock has a falling out with Irene. The boy is creating a club, or an organization, or something, in order to – in his words – "create our own fun – most people are so boring". He's sending out invitations, and he wants both Ravenclaws in his circle. Sherlock has no intention to participate in the Slytherin's amusement. He gets bored like anyone else – probably more – but he already creates his own with his experiments, and needs no one but John.

Irene tries to plead the Slytherin's cause once too many, and Sherlock insults her, insinuating that the sorting hat picked wrong, that she's too dumb to be a Ravenclaw if she needs Jim bloody Moriarty to keep her amused. Irene slaps him – hard. Sherlock glowers and leaves her behind, running to John to complain about it.

"I'm glad that you aren't in Jim's little club. I don't like him at all," John remarks smiling proudly at him. Smarting cheek already forgotten, Sherlock basks in his friend's approval.

Sherlock isn't the only one to lose a sort-of friend because of Jim Moriarty. Once it becomes clear that 'making one's fun' entails mostly bullying, blackmailing, pet kidnapping and other such activities, John refuses to stand by and has words with Sebastian, claiming he should be expelled from Gryffyndor. It escalates quickly, and the end result is some black eyes, a bruised rib (John's) and a dislocated shoulder (Bast's).

Greg, once informed, sighs and scolds them harshly – and even if they haven't told him the reason for the fight (because John knows, but he has no proof to show), he flatly informs Moran that he'll be watching his behaviour carefully. Greg isn't stupid, and he's heard some things. "I'm not docking you points or involving the teachers just because I think you are smarting enough for this to be punishment on its own. But if the both of you do anything more than looking at each other the wrong way I'll involve higher authorities than I am – and you won't like it."

When informed, a rather proud of him Sherlock tells his friend, "Lestrade must have known you were in the right, John. But he couldn't reasonably punish only one of you. That's why you got scot free."

"I can't stand the idea of Sebastian doing these things – he wasn't bad until he got involved with Moriarty," the blond confesses. "Someone should stop them."

"Are you volunteering? Mind you, I hate to say this, but Jim is smart, and he's the planner. They'll never leave behind evidence enough that you might denounce them to the teachers – unless they mean to, for some even worse and more intricate plot," Sherlock queries, smiling.

"I might be. I wouldn't be able to do much alone, though," John admits, with a daring grin that suits him very much.

"Ah, but you wouldn't have to be. If you want, I am all for trying to cook Jim's goose. It might even be entertaining," Sherlock assures him. He would have fun thanks to Jim, like the Slytherin had so insisted that he should…not being an accomplice, though. (Thank God he'd never even been tempted to consider it – John would have shunned him if he had.)

The following two years see many, many skirmishes, until everyone knows that the thing to do if you fall under Moriarty's kind of unwanted attentions is go to Sherlock (which usually means locating wherever John happens to be at the moment).

They don't always come out on top, because Jim is good at planning his sadistic fun and has a number of minions, entranced by his old pureblood family's power and the certainty of not being punished by the teachers as long as they follow their orders to the letter – not to mention the ones who are just as sadistic as Jim, and not afraid to dirty their own hands.

Still, they manage to foil his plans many times. Sherlock doesn't doubt that Jim is going to attack them sooner rather than later, but he's still not tried to touch them directly. No doubt because he wants to plan carefully to then strike without giving them the chance to recover from it.

Which is why, however much Sherlock loves Defence from the Dark Art lessons, he's dreading the upcoming boggart practice. Your worst fear is not something you want to be made public in front of your enemy. He's curious about what John's boggart might be, though. The Gryffyndor looks entirely fearless to Sherlock's maybe-slightly enamoured eyes.

It shouldn't come as a surprise that John's boggart is Sherlock's lifeless body, ripped apart from an explosion (one that he's caused himself, probably, in John's imagination – as if that'd ever happen). It takes only a few seconds for John – his hand clutching his Ravenclaw friend's hard – to utter "Riddikulus" and for the boggart to show a whole and hale Sherlock…with iridescent butterfly wings.

Afterwards it is Sherlock's turn, and the creature shows nothing more than one John Watson wearing a look of sheer loathing on his face, and angrily tap-tapping his fingers against his thigh. It takes John a moment to realize it's not just a show of anger, or nervousness. This other John is talking – in Morse code (he's been the one to teach it to Sherlock, enthusiastic at being able to teach something to his clever friend).

"…Hate you," the fake John is saying. "You freak. I pretended because your brother paid good money for the baby to have some sort of company, but not even that is enough to make me stand you anymore."

Sherlock is still not saying, "Riddikulus." He looks completely crushed and unable to object to the poisonous words. John hates it. How can his friend even imagine such things? The Gryffyndor is so highly tempted to say the right spell himself, to make this nightmare disappear, but that would mean that Sherlock would have failed his test and that would be unheard of.

So instead John gives into instinct…and punches his lookalike in the face with all his weight behind his fist, making it fall to the ground. That doesn't break the spell, but it gives Sherlock enough of a shock to finally utter "Riddikulus," changing the thing to a harmless form.

"Well, that was a first in the history of magic, I believe," the professor remarks, looking amused. "So apparently you can ask your Gryffyndor friends to deal with Boggarts physically, if they don't share your fears…but I'd much rather that you were able to push through your fears by yourselves."

Later on, while they're alone, Sherlock pouts. "I thought we had agreed never to mention that particular experiment, and you exposed me instead."

"Nobody knows you were a very charming butterfly for a whole five hours last week. Everyone will think this was just my imagination, not something that actually happened. And I needed something good to make me forget that spectacle. By the way, hope you haven't caused any tornadoes by flapping your wings last time. They'd be bound to be terrific," John placates, smiling at the memory.

More than mellowed, Sherlock is distracted. "Tornadoes? Why? What kind of spell would that be?" he queries, puzzled.

"No, it's not any spell – at least I hope it's not. It's a muggle theory. It says that a butterfly flapping its wings once could start a series of events that would cause a tornado on a different continent. Given the size of your wings…well, let's just hope for the better," John says, shrugging and laughing weakly.

"Yeah, let's hope," the Ravenclaw says, grinning back.

"And anyway, what was your Riddikulus, now that we're talking about it? That was more cute than anything else. Do you have a hidden weakness for cute critters? Maybe had one as a pet when you were young?" the Gryffyndor inquires, curious.

"My childhood pet was surprisingly normal – an Irish setter. It wouldn't cut a poor figure in a muggle house. And my Riddikulus was very ridiculous. It wasn't just a hedgehog, John. It was a drunk one," Sherlock reveals.

"And here I thought it was swaying because it was still dazed from my punch," John remarks, shaking his head at his own foolishness. He's not going to ask what sort of mental association made Sherlock go from him to hedgehogs, as he suspects he wouldn't like the answer.

"I'm sure that helped," Sherlock admits, looking at him admiringly. "And…umm… thank you. What you did for me, that was…good."

"Don't mention it. I did it for myself. I couldn't stand the bastard," the Gryffyndor states, still the shadow of a growl on the last sentence – he really hated that boggart.

"I didn't expect Sebastian's boggart to be a giant wasp, though. It seems a little silly for one big boy like him," Sherlock points out.

"Oh no, that is a very rational boggart. He's allergic, you see. Even a little wasp could really kill him without the right medicine," John shares.

"Interesting," the Ravenclaw remarks.

"We're not making any attempts on anyone's life, not even bullies like Seb," John states firmly, crossing his arms in a show of displeasure.

"We're not killing him, but any and all information on your enemy is precious. It might be useful when you least expect it," Sherlock agrees meekly.

"I almost forgot. You're a Ravenclaw, of course you love knowledge. Knowledge on your enemies makes no exception. And about that, who the hell was Jim's boggart?" the Gryffyndor wonders.

"Didn't you see the shell of his ears? Or his eyebrows? He was obviously Moriarty senior. Good to know that he's afraid of his father, I guess that if we might find some evidence on his deeds he'd abruptly stop rather than risk being punished and so disappointing his dad. The Moriarty are an old and very proud family," Sherlock explains.

"That's the advantage of being a muggle born – very old families don't impress me at all, because I don't know anything about them. Assholes are still assholes," John says. His friend smiles at him.

Luck is on their side, too. John picks Care of Magical Creatures as elective because he likes animals, and he wants to learn about all the existing creatures he'd always thought were myth in his childhood – or even never suspected they could exist. Sherlock chooses the same elective…because John will be in that class and Sherlock isn't going to willingly be separated from his friend. The Gryffyndor follows his suggestion often enough that he has no problem letting John lead for once. Jim Moriarty picks Care of Magical Creatures…who knows why.

They discover why when the professor brings them to the Forbidden Forest for a lesson on unicorns. As far as Sherlock's interested, the only noteworthy thing about unicorns is that their hair is part of John's wand. Most faithful of all wands and harder to turn to the dark arts. John – and his magic wand – have the best qualities.

So, when Jim, very quietly, slips away unnoticed by almost anyone, Sherlock follows him – and, with a little sigh of regret (he was liking this lesson), John follows him. He's not letting Sherlock possibly face Jim bloody Moriarty alone.

They go deeper and deeper into the forest, until Jim whistles two notes…and an Acromantula comes up to him. It's the first time either of them sees one up close, and it's all John and Sherlock can do not to yell, not even gasp too loudly, in fear of attracting the thing's attention.

"You walk in beauty, like the night," Jim coos lovingly at the horrific creature. "I love you, Betty. Wish I could keep you in my room, but well, you wouldn't fit. Not to mention the other boys would complain…or not. Do you think they would dare to, my lovely?"

Instead of answering, the giant spider asks, "When are you feeding me?"

"Soon, darling, I promise. You have to trust me, Beth. The plans are already in motion. But you know what you have to do if you want it," Jim replies, shaking his fingers at her.

"It's unheard of," she complains. "We don't just let anyone take our poison without fussing about it."

"Not even if I caress your abdomen for half an hour? Afterwards sadly I really have to go back to my stupid classmates?" the Slytherin proposes.

John makes a disgusted face, and takes a careful step away from the scene, but Sherlock stops him with a look. Yes, it's odd and warped at best, but this is Jim Moriarty possibly acquiring one of the rarest and most potent poison, and they have to know what their enemy is up to.

Betty agrees to be wooed, at least, without promising anything. Jim gets to work with apparent enthusiasm, and makes her sigh in pleasure. John gags at the show. The Slytherin is touching that…creature and seems to even like petting the hairy abdomen. He has a stronger stomach – or a sicker mind – than the bravest of them all.

Still, the acromantula refuses to give up her poison in the end. "But say what, you keep this up for a week and I will give you your prize. As long as you don't babble about it. I have to save face," she declares at the end.

Jim pouts, but agrees, and leaves to rejoin his classmates. Sherlock and John move quickly, getting ahead of him so he won't realize he's been followed. Unless he realized already – would he have confronted them if he had?

They'll have to ask someone's notes for this lesson, but luckily there's Molly. Care of magical creatures is her absolutely favourite subject, which she looked forward to since first year, so she'll remember every word the professor said, and be only too glad to make them a favour. She likes Sherlock, one should be blind not to notice that, and the Ravenclaw takes advantage of that shamelessly. (John's scolding seems ineffective to correct his ways.)

When Carl Powers disappears, ten days later, Sherlock knows Jim has just upgraded his game. Carl was a Gryffindor fifth year, and he had been bothering Sebastian lately, trying vainly to seduce the boy. They almost came to blows, but Jim had been present and persuaded Seb to let it go with a sharp word. The Slytherin didn't want his minion to get into trouble needlessly – or maybe he wanted to deal with the annoyance himself. Test out his new acquisition, maybe.

The Ravenclaw suspects that they will find Carl in the Forbidden Forest, if they find him at all. A Gryffyndor braving the wild place, and getting eaten for his troubles (Betty must be so glad now). A post-mortem would evidence only acromantula poison. Nothing suspect. That Jim has obtained said poison in an apparently impossible way and administered it well before Carl entered the Forest would be impossible to prove.

"He can't kill people and get away with it!" John rages, frowning, once Sherlock shares his suppositions.

"I would love to see him in jail, but we have no evidence. Suppose that we came forth and told what we've seen in the Forbidden Forest. He'd simply deny it. I don't doubt that his reserve of poison is well-hidden, and a simple search would not find it. Jim is too smart for that. He could even have given it to hold to Seb or someone else of his so called club. And he apparently has no motive. He tried to bring peace between Moran and Powers, and there are plenty witnesses for that," the Ravenclaw explains. He doesn't like this at all, either. But he sees no possible course of action.

"There must be some evidence. We have to find it!" the Gryffyndor cries out.

It might be because of this decision – John isn't exactly subtle in his hate of the Slytherin – or it might be because Jim has noticed them following him after all, but it is only two days after Carl's disappearance that Brynden comes to search for Sherlock after a Quidditch match (the first one the Ravenclaw has not attended, rather continuing his studies on arachnids)…awkwardly dragging his master's wand behind himself. Sherlock's blood runs cold. They'd taken John – with a sneak attack, no doubt – and he is now…where? He bets inside the Forbidden Forest. Hopefully not already inside Betty's ample stomach.

Sick with dread, he runs to the acromantula's lair…and there, like he expects, are Moran and Moriarty, both with gleeful grins on their faces…and John, already partially bound in silken strands. Before Betty could dig in, Sherlock loudly proclaims, "Arania Exumai." That blasts away the acromantula…and Jim Moriarty. However surprising that is, at least it means that Sebastian moves away, in search of his friend.

The Ravenclaw frantically rubs away the silk bounds… then does something he shouldn't have even known how to do (and surely isn't properly licensed to do) but time is of the essence. So, he Apparates them both to the hospital wing. The experience wouldn't be pleasant, but Sherlock is certain they wouldn't miss any limbs at their arrival. He knows how to do this, honest. He'd observed Mycroft a few times when he side-alonged apparated him somewhere – how difficult could that be?

Be it beginner's luck or unparalleled skill, they indeed arrive whole and much in the same conditions they left. To be honest, Sherlock never had any fear about splinching John – he's intensely aware of his friend, from head to toe. If he'd had time to consider this, Sherlock should have been worried about splinching some body part of his own he considered too boring to bother with, but apparently it's not happened.

He refuses to leave John's side, and observes with hawk eyes while they mix the antidote for him. The only ingredient he even recognizes is honeywater. He'll have to research what the other things are. He's never had much of an interest in healing spells – they're more John's hobby, to be honest – but maybe it's time to start.

He's severely scolded for his reckless apparating, of course. He's informed in a no-nonsense tone that there'll be a lot of detention for that, and maybe worse. The following day John discharges himself – and he's really fine, but still more shaky on his legs than the doctor would like (another twelve hours of rest would have done him good) – to go see the Headmaster with Sherlock and uphold the rightness of his friend's decision. Sherlock hasn't apparated as one of his harebrained experiments – he was trying to save his life. In John's humble opinion, he should be commended, not scolded.

"And why are we even in trouble, and not Jim Moriarty, when he's…" John rages. The whole story comes out then, the attack, the poisoning, and how it's not Jim's first time, and if they bothered Betty in her lair they'd find Carl Powers, or at least his bones, and… "And it's time Moriarty finally gets in trouble after always doing whatever hell he pleases!"

The headmaster hears them out seriously, and asks them all the details, and they present the case to him almost complete. "And Arania exumai shouldn't have worked on him, so either he's exchanged his blood with Betty for some weird ritual or he's an acromantula with magical talent and a knack for transfiguration, though it's odd he'd be sorted in Slytherin then," Sherlock rambles.

"We'll look into everything. If your accuses are proven they'll both be expelled, and we'll contact the authorities. This is murder and attempted murder we're dealing with – we can't possibly deal with such on our own," the headmaster promises.

In the end, he doesn't have to – Sebastian asked after John at the hospital wing, apparently a concerned friend (Sherlock shudders to think what he'd have done if he found him), and once he knew where he was both Jim and Seb expelled themselves, running away from Hogwarts. Carl Powers' dead body is found in Betty's lair, and the acromantula is slain. Honestly, knowing that Jim and Seb are running around free – and possibly still with more acromantula poison – isn't reassuring at all. Hopefully they'll become wanted men…well, boys, if the headmaster is honest about contacting the authorities, but Sherlock respects his enemy too much to believe he'll be easily caught.

They still get detention for apparating, though. Not any worse because the headmaster understands how it was meant to save John's life, and it's the both of them because John stubbornly refuses to leave Sherlock to his punishment when he's been along for the ride – the cause of it, even – going so far as to tell such to the headmaster in not exactly respectful terms.

The professor appointed to overlook their detention is the same that teaches Apparating to the boys old enough for the course, and he makes them write lines. It's pointless, it's boring, and Sherlock hates it. He already knows he's not yet of age for apparating, or that he doesn't have the proper license. He'd still do it again in a heartbeat for John. Even if the punishment was much harder instead of simply mind-numbingly dull.

The following three years are nice enough, without Moriarty's shadow looming over them. He keeps John close, not letting him go home for the holidays, because he's sure Jim and Seb are hiding in the muggle world, and waiting to ambush John in revenge. When Sherlock grows up, he might become an Auror himself and face Jim again (Mycroft brought some Aurors home and Sherlock's afraid they aren't smart enough to catch him). That is, if he can manage to work with anyone who isn't John.

But at Hogwarts, they're safe. They keep solving problems for fellow students, experimenting with the most odd ideas Sherlock gets stuck in his brain, and exploring and having occasional adventures to keep John – brave John – satisfied with his lot in life.

There's a change, though, that Sherlock loathes. While before he and John used to be always joined at the hip, it's a while that John has discovered the joys of love and…yes, sex, and he's spent entirely too much time – in the Ravenclaw's not-so-humble opinion – wooing this or that female. John seems determined to go through every female of eligible age in Hogwarts. Or, well, not anyone. He's got a nickname by now, Three-Houses Watson, because he shags indiscriminately fellow Gryffyndor, sneaky Slytherin or friendly Hufflepuff, he never touches anyone from the Ravenclaw house. General consensus is that people smarter than him turn John off. Sherlock desperately hopes that there's any other reason to his odd staying clear of Ravenclaws (not that he has the nerve to downright question him about it) because he's harbouring a crush the size of Eurasia for his only friend and such a thing would be terribly unfortunate.

He's not said a thing, though. The last thing he wants is John to decide that they can't be friends anymore because he lusts over him. He'd die if that happened, he's sure. He's not daring enough to confess his feelings (he's not a Gryffyndor – nobody expects him to be brave) and unable to stop John from flirting with the whole school and just hurting because there's no solution in sight. Until there is.

The potions' professor is having them brew amortentia. To Sherlock, obviously, it smells like tea, stale ink (the old books always have the nicest info), wool (from John's jumpers when he visited over winter holidays), and John's cologne. He inhales deeply. It smells delicious. What would happen if he had just a taste? It's his own brew. He can't very well fall in love with himself, can he? Or maybe he can – and he'll become even more of a selfish prick? Maybe it's better not to try it out.

The professor has stressed out how this is not a true love potion. That there are no true love potions at all. The right ingredients can bring out desire, obsession, even, but true love is a marvellous, fearsome, and entirely irreplicable feeling. 'Love' gained from amortentia is but a pale substitute for that. Of course the professor has to say it, otherwise everyone in class would be dosing everyone else in Hogwarts with amortentia tomorrow. And what would even happen if the most popular boys were dosed with amortentia multiple times by different people? Is it a case of 'first come, first served'? Or would that mess up their feelings? (He's not trying this experiment, with some unsuspecting accomplice. He can already imagine John's disapproving frown if he did.)

But Sherlock is somehow desperate to stop John's dating, by now. And he can't confess his feelings – not if he's to be rejected, which he probably will be. Because John dates females; because he doesn't date Ravenclaws; because if he'd been inclined towards Sherlock he'd just flirt at him – he certainly knows how to do so, much to Sherlock's distaste. So no, John doesn't love him.

Is a pale imitation of that – with maybe a touch of obsession in it – enough? A fake feeling is it better than no feelings at all? The young Ravenclaw agonizes over the question, but after yet another one of John's dates (Sarah Sawyer, Gryffyndor and badass in Defence against the Dark Arts) he decides that it's close enough. If fake love is all he can get, fake love is what he'll be content with.

So, the next time he invites John to the Ravenclaw's common room, in an angle of which he's set up an experiment as cover up – one of his newfound interest for medical spells, for which he wants John's help – he asks his friend to check something up while he makes tea. It's odd, but John doesn't question it.

Still, when he brings the doctored cup, the Gryffyndor asks, "Is this a side experiment?"

"What makes you think that?" Sherlock queries, defensive.

"It smells a bit like that experiment you were working on last month," John explains. It is marvellous that Sherlock's experiments rate among John's favourite things, but he should have added a bit less amortentia perhaps if John can smell it despite the tea mix.

"It might be. But it won't harm you in any way, John. I swear!" the Ravenclaw hurries to reassure.

"What will it do?" John asks.

Sherlock can't say the truth, so he utters hesitantly, "…I'm not entirely sure?"

His friend sighs deeply…and then downs the cup in one gulp. Always willing to help the cause of research. "I don't feel any different," he says then.

"What?" Sherlock blurts, dismayed. It can't be. Strongest love potion known to man. John should be mooning over him.

"Afraid so. Whatever you were playing at didn't work, Sher," the Gryffyndor states. "Now, don't look so disappointed. You botched a potion. It happens."

"Not to me," the Ravenclaw replies, pouting. He's followed the recipe perfectly – it should work. Why doesn't it?

"You can brew it again – whatever that was. I'll be your guinea pig again, if it helps. Everything for research, right? Just don't be sad," John says softly. Always too kind for his own good.

The suggestion is a good one, though. He'll brew it again – and wait a month. If after that it's not strong enough to ensure John becomes his…Sherlock is not sure what he'll do. Probably cry himself to sleep, in all honesty. "I will," he agrees, a stubborn expression on his face.

"That's my Sher," John utters fondly, and it's all the Ravenclaw can do not to blush in pleasure.

He gives it two months instead, just to be absolutely sure. When he doses John again, once again his friend detects it – it smells of 'experiment', whatever that is supposed to mean – but once again, he doesn't complain. Sherlock waits for a few breathless moments, and then…

"Uh – is that a slow-acting concoction? Because I don't feel any different," John says.

Sherlock is ready to tear his hair out in frustration. "It can't be! Are you teasing me? It's not funny, John!"

"No, I'm – honestly, nothing happened. Do you want to check it out together with me? You might have missed something."

"I most certainly have not. It's you who are…heartless. Why John?" Sherlock spits back in frustration.

"Heartless? Why, what did you dose me with?" John queries suspiciously.

"Amortentia, and I can assure you that I did not miss any ingredients!" the Ravenclaw replies hotly.

"Amortentia?" the Gryffyndor echoes, shocked. "Was it a joke? Did you want to make me behave like a lovesick fool?"

"Why does anyone use a love potion, John?" Sherlock mumbles. "I wanted you to love me," he admits, fidgeting and blushing in shame.

"Amortentia lasts a day," John reminds him unconvinced, shaking his head.

"Yeah, well, I was more than ready to make you doctored tea every morning of our lives," the Ravenclaw confesses.

"That's…sweet, actually. And more than a bit of good too, probably," the Gryffyndor remarks, looking amused despite his better judgment. "I thought you'd pledged your love only to knowledge," he adds after a small pause. "You certainly derided me enough for my flings."

"You couldn't expect me to endorse them! I hated every last one of them, for taking you away from me," Sherlock acknowledges. There's fire in his voice.

"That might be, but you scorned everyone that happened to fall in love, too, how was I to suppose you felt it," John replies reasonably, a slow grin starting to spread at the idea of a jealous Sherlock. At least he had a good reason for trying to ruin his dates beyond wanting to destroy John's day.

"I couldn't not commiserate them. I know how miserable love makes you," the Ravenclaw replies unhappily.

"But that was only onesided love. What do you say to getting to experience the actually dating version of it?" John proposes cheekily.

"With who?" Sherlock queries, looking uncomprehendingly at him.

"I thought you wanted me," John points out, now suddenly uncertain.

"And you don't date Ravenclaws," the raven-haired boy remarks dejectedly.

"Yeah, know why? I was afraid that if I saw the Ravenclaw colours it'd be your name I'd be calling out when making love," John reveals, blushing brightly.

"You want me?" Sherlock asks, incredulous.

"Since years ago," John admits. "But I was convinced you didn't feel that way, so I was certainly not going to pine all the time. I tried to distract myself – not that it worked."

"Idiot," Sherlock says – and that's definitely an endearment.

"Yeah well, the smartest person I know didn't figure out that the Amortentia failed because I was already madly in love with you – just quite apt at hiding it," the Gryffyndor teases gently.

"Can I believe that, John Watson?" Sherlock counters, looking unsure – and making John's heart melt for him.

"You better," John replies…then proceeding to kiss the living daylights out of the Ravenclaw. Sherlock moans into the kiss. "I can't believe we waited this long for this," he adds after the kiss ends, after getting back his breath a moment.

"So…Four-houses Watson," Sherlock quips, smiling.

"I suppose. Even if that's behind me. I'm certainly not looking twice at anyone now that I have the most amazing creature in Hogwarts," John gushes.

"To quote you, you better…or I might have to turn you into a hedgehog," Sherlock only half-mock threats, still blushing a bit at the praise.

"What's with you and hedgehogs?" the Gryffyndor queries, puzzled.

"Oh, just a pet theory of mine," Sherlock vaguely answers. John has not figured out the Patronus spell yet (they'll really have to work on that if they want to become Aurors) but the Ravenclaw suspects that would be the form of John's.

"Fine, keep your secrets…love," John concedes.

"Love," Sherlock echoes. And kisses him again.


End file.
